"If you travel to Germany, it's still absolutely Germany. If you travel to Sweden, it still has a Swedish identity... but travel to England and you have no idea where you are."
So says the daffodil-flapping modern irrelevance Morrissey, complaining about the number of foreigners in the country.
I've never had any difficulty working out where I am when I travel to England, largely due to the large, near-unavoidable road signs marked "Welcome To England" that dot the border. Additionally, there are key giveaways like regional accents, fried breakfasts and the stampedes of football fans desperately trying to avoid watching the national team.
I reckon I know what's going on, though - whenever Morrissey comes back for a visit, all the locals spot him coming and urgently whisper Bollocks, it's that pretentious twat out of The Smiths. Quick, pretend you're from Warsaw, and maybe he'll go away.
Imagine Morrissey's chagrin when he finds his old haunts are filled with pasty white Punjabis - no wonder he spends most of his time prancing about in Italy like some kind of great, droning tit-end.
Still, he gets brownie-points for suing the arse off smug, bumwipe music magazine NME, an act of charity which is long overdue.